Kirsten Fuchs

... that I love you

Snow is lying in Berlin. It has simply lain itself down everywhere and

never got up again. It lolls around like a lazy child and is of absolutely

no use at all. Nobody asks it to get up again, to learn something, to

achieve something. The snow lies in every street like a marking left by a

megalomaniac dog. It owns the city. Its supposedly beautiful whiteness

does nothing for me, nor does the crunching sound under my shoes or

the breaking of the thin upper layer.

I am walking to take the bus to the airport. I leave my traces in the snow

but because it continues to snow I don’t actually leave any traces. My

footprints get covered over and disappear. No reason to be sad or to cry. I

never used to cry. I cried while watching Casablanca, but only the second

time. Long story, but the way to the airport is long – long enough for a

long story.

 

The first time I saw Casablanca was with my girl-friend at the time, Ina.

She desperately wanted us to see the film together, although she herself

had seen it numerous times before, but of course without me, perhaps

with the guy she used to go out with. But I didn’t really mind. There are

things I’ve done with all my girlfriends, too: kissing, talking about my

school days, smoking.

Ina and I watched the film snuggled up together, and guess what – it

was boring. Ina cried at the end, because she cries every time she sees

that film. It’s like the knee-jerk reflex that makes your leg shoot up when

somebody taps your knee: tap on Ina’s heart with a little Casablanca

hammer, and the tears start to flow. I held her in my arms and it felt nice.

Then Ina looked at me with her drop-shaped eyes and, just to ease the

atmosphere, I said: “Well, if ever I need a visa, I’ll know to look inside the

piano first!” That wasn’t the reason for our separation, but that’s where it

started. Ina was appalled when I said that I would never cry – or blubber,

as men say – and certainly never weep, as women say. I told her I had

cried on my first day at school because the patent leather shoe on my

right foot had been too tight, and then also when my first car had been

scrapped. Ina saw this as a complete inability to experience feelings:

I was emotionless, unromantic, cerebral, and someone like that was

incapable of love. I assured her that I loved her. I said: “I assure you that I

love you!” and she found this assertion dreadful.

“But I told you that I love you and now I’ve done it again. I can even tell

you again that I love you, no problem.”

Ina got upset because “that I love you” and “I love you” are not the same

thing.

“But the main thing is that I love you”, I said.

“That I love you ...”, she repeated. “You simply can’t say it, can you?”

Then she gave me a challenging look. I didn’t really feel like saying it any

more, but I did anyway. A man’s got to do what’s a man’s got to do.

“I love you. I love you. I love you!”, I reeled off. Even that didn’t satisfy

her. I felt like I was taking an exam where the task was absolutely unclear:

solve any problem, make any point, calculate something.

“I love you. There, it’s out”, I said. Ina was annoyed and stayed annoyed.

She took every opportunity to needle me about my lack of romanticism.

I was affectively handicapped, emotionally crippled and blind to

romanticism. She brought the subject up with friends and slammed it

down visibly on the table when we were making raclette: “Yeah, the man

who cries on account of a scrapped car...” As if I’d cried – I’d howled like

a real guy.

I should really have argued with her but I wanted rather to be happy

with her. I could have said: “Yeah, yeah, the woman who blubbers at

the slightest shit...”, but I let it be. Instead I thought about how I could

convince Ina that I really was romantic, extremely sensitive – hey, a

total softie. Since I was none of these, this would amount to telling my

girlfriend lies, but in any case I wanted to keep her. Ina was witty, clever,

forgetful in an incredibly touching way and somehow totally cute. She

plaited her hair and wore Pink-Panther hair clips. I ask you, who can

say anything romantic to a woman like that? So I wrote a letter, with my

rusty handwriting, which is good enough for scrawling shopping-lists on

scraps of paper. I wrote the most beautiful love letter in the world, several

pages long. I made a lot of assertions and meant them all seriously; I

just embellished them in a pompous way. My feelings for Ina were like a

beautiful fir tree which specially for her I transformed into a Christmas tree

hung with stars, balls, tinsel, candles and figurines.

I can’t remember now everything I wrote. The salutation ran: My splendid

girl!

In addition I had enclosed a voucher for a trip to Casablanca. I had

borrowed the money from various people so that, if she wanted, we could

fly off straightaway. It was the middle of winter, Berlin was snowed under.

I placed the letter in a piano in a restaurant. It took me some time to find

a restaurant with a piano. Then I took her out for a meal there. I looked

at her happily. It was going to be my treat, of course, so straight off I

generously ordered a bottle of wine and played with her fingers in my

hand. At some point she again put on her examination look, which was

meant to get me to say “I love you.” I said: “Look inside the piano!”

“Ah, cut the crap”, she burst out. She probably thought I was taking the

piss. “You and your jokes!” She slammed some money down on the table.

“All you have to do is to say I love you!” She put her coat on, much too

hectically, and got caught in the sleeves. This gave her more time to stare

at me like an enraged bull, as if I had a red rag on my face.

“I love you!” I said quickly. I’ve played lots of those computer games

where you’re given three options: for example, how to persuade a

doorman to let you in, or to get a teacher to hand over some papers,

something like that. I was good at it. At the moment Ina was close to

boiling point and about to storm off, I quickly turned over in my mind

whether I should say “Stay here!” or “Calm down!” or “I love you!” I opted

for answer c. I love you. “Forget it!”

Off she went. Outside it was cold, inside it was cold. I drank up the wine

– which didn’t make me any warmer. By the time I left the restaurant Ina’s

footprints had already been covered over by the snow. That’s why I can’t

stand snow.

 

The bus has arrived at the airport – the terminus. I am the only person

without any luggage. I stick my hands in my pockets and go through the

automatic door, which shovels people into the airport like a paddle-wheel.

A woman is in such a hurry that she starts trying to push the slow-moving

door. Right in front of her nose, if she had happened to look, is a sticker

telling you not to push the door by hand, but she doesn’t look in that

direction. The automatic revolving door gets stuck and stops moving.

The woman and I stand in our plexiglass cells and wait for it to start off

again. The woman looks at me, and if I had been in a hurry too, then I

might have been pissed off. I smile. The door starts revolving again. The

person who is in a hurry is held up by being in too much of a hurry. I like

that. It seems just and nasty. Perhaps just is always nasty, but at any rate

just. I don’t think it’s just that Ina has left me, only nasty. She fobbed me

off on the phone and the only explanation she had to offer was that it

wasn’t right. That’s what she’s bequeathed to me: I’m like an heir who’s

now burdened with debts. A year has passed. During this time I have paid

back the money I borrowed to buy the two tickets to Casablanca. I could

fly there twice on my own or once with someone else – but I want to go

with Ina.

I go to terminal eight. The trolley cases clatter, the announcements boom,

the hurrying passengers’ scarves flutter.

I go into the bistro, which gives you a view of the runway. There’s a vacant

seat at the window. I take off my coat from a sitting position: it’s bound to

be some time before Ina comes. After she left me I saw the film again and

started to cry, or, if you like, weep. I still found the film boring, but I wept

all the same. A stopper must have come out, because since then I’ve

cried time and time again. But today that’s over. Today Ina’s coming.

I’ve often sat here and watched the planes taking off and landing. The

coffee is expensive and awful, the waiting staff very nice. Antje and Herr

Tesch. Antje works here because she wanted to become a stewardess;

Herr Tesch because he wanted to become a pilot. Antje’s mother was a

stewardess and Antje hardly ever saw her. When Antje told me this, I had

to cry. Herr Tesch’s father was not a pilot. Herr Tesch wanted to become a

pilot because women took no notice of him and he was convinced that a

man who can fly would get attention. He can fly. He’s had the training. He

passed the examination but couldn’t find a job. He hasn’t got a woman,

either. To tell the truth, he is not very attractive; in fact, his face is rather

ill-proportioned. He has soft features around the mouth, but they’re not

smooth – just flabby. I think he would be better off with a beard. I even

told him so, but he can’t grow a beard, Herr Tesch explained. That made

me cry.

“So, Dirk. How about one of our fine coffees”, asks Antje. I nod. “And an

ashtray!” I shout after her. I light a cigarette already, trusting that Antje

will bring an ashtray before the ash drops off of its own accord – even if I

keep my hand steady. I like this place, because it isn’t really a place. Most

people who spend time here are either coming from somewhere else or

are on their way to somewhere else. A restless assortment: some wanting

to get away, some having to get away, some arriving and then wanting,

or having, to get away again. I wait for Antje. First, Antje comes with the

ashtray. Antje might in fact be pretty but it’s easy to pretend that she isn’t.

She doesn’t move very confidently, just casually, and she doesn’t look

inviting, just friendly.

Antje stands at my table for a short while and tells me that Hermann

hasn’t been around for a few days. “Well, perhaps he’s made it”, I say.

Antje doesn’t think so. Then she has to go off and see to the other

customers. Gabi is here, she always wants to talk a lot. And Jan is here,

too; he needs another Coke every quarter of an hour. And then there are

those customers who have actually flown or are about to fly, who are

only here for a short time. But Hermann is not here. Hermann is afraid

of flying. He sits around all the time and stares out of the window. He

hasn’t told me why he is afraid of flying. I’ve thought of various reasons

and each one made me cry: his parents were in a plane crash, he himself

only just survived, the love of his life lives in Australia and he can’t get

there. Perhaps he is equally afraid of ships, and so he is trapped on this

continent, which he sees as an island, something no normal person does

because the continent is so big that even Asia is still the same island. I

don’t know what’s wrong with Hermann. Everybody who comes here just

to be here has a screw loose, has lost their marbles or is off their trolley in

some way. I wait for Ina.

Jan wants to go to America, so much so that he always wears a cowboy

hat, as if just wearing the hat were half the journey. He wants to become

a star. He has recorded a CD, and is always offering to sell me a copy.

Then I say, “Jan, I’ve already got one!”, and Jan explains to me that he

still has a thousand to sell. He is looking for a manager and a producer.

“Then things’ll start moving!”, Jan smiles. He has a charming smile with

dimples. I could easily imagine him as a star, but unfortunately he has an

unremarkable voice, like a sparrow. Jan’s stage name is Little Jimmy. I call

him Jan. Antje is kind, she calls him Little Jimmy; she would even call me

Rick if I wanted her to. When Jan excitedly told me that he’s been given

the chance to put on a concert in the art room at his nephew’s school, I

cried.

Today everybody’s here, apart from Hermann: Jan, Antje, Herr Tesch,

Gabi. I don’t count myself; I’m just waiting for Ina.

Gabi used to be crazy about the idea of going through the metal detector

and being searched. Gabi, unlike Hermann, tells everybody everything.

Gabi used to fly around Germany on low-cost flights. She deliberately put

metal objects on her body, even in her knickers.

If she hadn’t been reported for it by a young security official who felt

sexually harassed, then she would probably have gone bust. She says

she’s off it now, but she still comes to the airport, watches people being

searched and then comes to the bistro to feel ashamed. I had to cry when

Gabi told me that, but then I had to move away from her because she

tried to tempt me to the toilet, so that at least she could have sex in an

airport. Perhaps I would have had to beep.

I’ll have to finish my coffee before Ina gets here. As usual it’s awful. Sugar

doesn’t make it any better, if anything it’s the sugar that gets worse. At the

next table somebody is making a very loud phone call. Late arrival, pick

up, taxi, connecting flight, luggage, passport. I could play a kind of word

bingo. I would always put my money on precisely those six expressions.

Then I would wait and listen in on phone conversations and when I got

to six, I would jump up from my seat and shout “bingo!” People would

probably think I was crazy, although in fact I am the only normal person

among the slightly different customers. Antje isn’t crazy, either, but the

rest of them are hopelessly lost. I wait for Ina, and here she comes.

She is wearing a black coat with grey fake-fur trimming, a black skirt,

black shoes, and her grey hair is loose. Her hair is wet from the snow.

She has run all the way here. She is freezing. I can see her legs shivering

inside her tights. Some snowflakes have survived the walk through the

airport to the bistro and are glistening on Ina’s coat. She has put on

some make-up, something she never used to do. There’s some dark

lipstick on her open lips. She looks around for me, her eyes wide open.

The snowflakes have melted, drops of water are sitting on the fake fur of

her coat and sparkling. Ina stands there with my letter in her hand. The

sheets of paper are wet and crumpled and they are quivering because

Ina is trembling so much. Ina is wearing black leather gloves, which she

slowly takes off. She wipes strands of hair out of her wet grey face and

keeps on looking around for me, scared I might not be there and might

not forgive her, hopeful I might be there and forgive her, trembling with the

excitement of being about to kiss me, to storm over to me, to drop onto

the floor and cry, to grasp my hand and stammer that she now realises

that I love her, that she remembers what I said to her, and then she looked

inside the piano in the restaurant and found the letter, she has always

loved me, always thought of me, can never forget me, and of course

she’ll come with me to Casablanca. A puddle forms where she is kneeling

because her hair is dripping and because she is crying and crying. Her

eyes are as heavy as the sky before a storm, her grey eyes are looking at

me, begging forgiveness.

“Ina, stand up!” I say and lift her up. Her face is completely white, under

her nose there is a black shadow cast by the lights above. She has never

looked so beautiful, “Ina, I love you!” I say. “I know”, she says. Then I say:

“Ina, I couldn’t buy you a meal that night, do we want to eat something

before we fly to Casablanca? It’s on me.”

“Kiss me!” she whispers and opens her grey lips.

I sigh. As always I’ve imagined everything in black and white. Who knows

whether the letter is still inside the piano? Perhaps I should write a new

one and put it in the piano. My coffee is finished, I order another.

“She won’t be coming today, will she?” asks Antje. I shrug my shoulders.

“Why not?” I ask. “If she wasn’t going to come, I wouldn’t be here.”

I light another cigarette and a plane lands.

“And it would be a shame if you didn’t come here again”, says Antje to

the serviettes and then looks at me. For a moment she looks more than

just friendly. She pushes her hair out of her face, and then Hermann walks

in. He hasn’t made it either. I wait for Ina.